


How late can we stay up tonight?

by Tenors_only_gang



Series: The Dream Apologist Two-Parter [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Morally Ambiguous Character, Platonic Cuddling, bad summary the dream team is tired and sad and takes a fuckin NAP, im so sorry im back on my dream apologist shit, you dont necessarily need to read the first part but its encouraged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28187826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenors_only_gang/pseuds/Tenors_only_gang
Summary: Dream rots in his own prison, but at least George and Sapnap are there to keep him company.(Takes place in the theory/hypothetical in which Dream ends up as the final prisoner of the inescapable prison, title nabbed from Jack Stauber's "Lifeline".)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: The Dream Apologist Two-Parter [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064942
Comments: 16
Kudos: 131





	How late can we stay up tonight?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Real quick, just wanted to explain that c!Dream has some somewhat violent intrusive thoughts here. I don't think its anything too graphic, but just a fair warning so it doesn't catch you off-guard!

Silence.

Unbearable, ringing silence, black obsidian walls, and no lights. Could Sam not at least include windows? At least a clock on the wall—anything to break the hours and hours of _nothing_? Any form of stimulus?

And yeah, Dream knows, sure, that this is about right. This is exactly how all of this was gonna end, and anyone with a sense of humor and a knack for writing could see it a million miles away. The very prison he’d commissioned, now tasked with holding him within its walls. And yeah, okay, fine, maybe he deserves it. He has no delusions of innocence.

He’s committed more crimes than he can count on his fingers, ruined more innocent lives than one could imagine, all with a smile and quirked eyebrow.

He doesn’t regret it either.

He regrets getting caught, he regrets the consequences, but he’d do it all again. He’d do it again, and he’d kill Sam too—and then he wouldn’t be here.

Maybe that’s what had brought his downfall. He’d thought too hard, sparing the people of the SMP too much mercy. He’d busied himself with the burden of outthinking the others, who to manipulate and who to make deals with, who to make an ally and who to keep an enemy.

He should’ve killed them all when he had the chance—he’s going to outlive all of them, inevitably, and yet he’ll never leave this box. His realm will go on without him, the day shifting into night, the winter into spring.

So when he’s first locked inside, of course with obsidian in place of a door, his first response is to scour for a way out. The idea that he’ll be here forever is impossible to conceive: forever is a very long time. Even he hasn’t been alive longer than his world, and the SMP has a creation date—a recent one, in the grand scheme of things.

So Dream tries to spawn in a netherite pickaxe. Enchanted to all hell too, focusing all of his energy into the manifestation of the tool. The mining fatigue III pulsing through the building may be strong, but Dream has ample time at his disposal.

It doesn’t work. Whatever source he draws his energy from is blocked inside of the thick walls, and in frustration, he stomps a foot against the floor.

Still, he isn’t going to give up so easily.

He tries to go at a wall with his bare hands. His knuckles are raw and sore by the time he’s halfway through a single block, and yet he still tears at it, willing himself to think about anything but the agonizing pain. He’ll be at it for a long time, yes, but perhaps not forever.

Three hours in, he passes out, crumpled into a corner on the floor.

By the time he wakes up, the obsidian is fully restored, all of Dream’s effort a waste.

“Fuck!” Dream yells at the top of his lungs, slamming a fist into a wall. “God, fucking— fuck! Why! What— the— hell—!”

He punctuated the last three words with more punches against the wall, the sharp sting in his knuckles nothing to him.

This is how he spends the next few days. kicking, screaming, punching at the walls: Dream, stripped of his power, of his mask, his status, his grip over others, is reduced to nothing but the man he is, a startlingly human manifestation of wasted potential. His sensitivity to rejection, his anger, his hatred of losing—all of it surfaces, bubbling up in his voice, in his body, and he understands claustrophobia now better than he ever has.

The high ceilings of the cell stifle him.

Dream isn’t supposed to lose. He never loses. His constant struggle to stay on top, to stay competitive, to win, isn’t supposed to be an upward battle, never was. He’s the smartest, after all—the literal god of the SMP, bested by a bunch of fucking teenagers. Dream has too much pride to swallow, and it forms a massive lump in his throat. He tries to convert it to bile, to spit it up until his voice is hoarse, and yet as he screams his voice away it lingers. It eats at him from the inside, and for the first time Dream wishes he were mortal. Wishes he could disappear, for even a moment. To feel the peace that a death could bring, even if he’ll just awaken in the cell. Dream doesn’t want to die, not really—he just wants to be relieved of this feeling, the awful, excruciating feeling of losing.

He doesn’t sleep much as time drags on, minute by minute, hour by hour. His brain is in overdrive, especially with the nearly pitch-black room that his eyes have only just begun to adjust to, leaving him nothing to entertain himself but his thoughts.

Dream helped build this prison himself, with the only other person he knows is knowledgeable enough to execute the building plans perfectly. Dream can out-engineer an average builder, sure—and definitely Sam himself, if he’s to be frank—but he can’t out-engineer himself.

It was his actions that put him here, and his actions holding him here.

So he yells and thrashes himself to sleep, only to wake up with frustrated energy burning through him like lightning, and repeats the process until his voice stutters to silence and his body can no longer take it.

It’s presumably a couple of days later that Dream opens his eyes to muffled speech outside, and in reflex he immediately presses his ear to the wall in the direction of the sound, hungry for any reminder that he was still a part of his world.

“Please, Bad, just a couple hours?”

_...Sapnap?_

“Guys, seriously—”

“Bad! Please! It’s been so long!”

_Definitely Sapnap._

“Please, Bad.”

_And George._

Silence falls between the voices, and just when Dream begins to believe he’s alone again, Bad cautiously pipes up.

“...Alright, at least empty your inventories.”

“What?”

“Bad—”

Why Sapnap and George respectively sound so incredulous, Dream has no idea. He slaps his palm against his forehead.

“Please don’t make this hard, guys, you know I’m not supposed to let you in at all,” Bad says, and despite the sadness dripping from Bad’s voice Dream wants to pull the teeth from his mouth.

“Bad, c’mon,” Dream hears Sapnap plead.

“Just do it, Sapnap,” George’s voice interjects, punctuated with a sigh, and soon the muffled footsteps are louder, closer.

The sound of pistons clicks methodically in front of Dream, and he backs into the wall across from the entrance, disdainful of the noise of layer after layer of blocks opening and closing in order to prevent an attempted escape.

About thirty seconds later, illuminated by torchlight, Dream's oldest, closest friends stand rigidly away from him.

Dream almost chokes on their names.

“George? Sapnap?”

The god’s eyes are wide, teary, and his voice is a wreck. From his days spent screaming, from the welling emotion, from whatever else it can be blamed on, he hears how it grates on the other two’s ears, how they hesitate as if his words are those of a nail on a chalkboard.

“Hi, Dream.” George lifts his left hand in a timid wave, the right holding up a torch, the only source of light in the room. His lips are pursed mournfully. He looks more tired than Dream has ever seen him.

Beside George, Sapnap’s upper lip quivers, his eyes twitching with irritation from his tears. He steps forward, hesitant, seemingly physically restraining himself.

Restraint.

The Sapnap that Dream knows doesn’t know restraint.

But this new version of his best friend has both aged years and regressed, innocent pain in his eyes completely out of place.

Dream makes a minute gesture with his head, as much of an invitation as he can give, and it’s all the youngest needs.

He runs into Dream’s arms, severing the imaginary barrier between them as they collide. Sapnap releases a quiet sob into his chest, and Dream locks his arms around him, one hand rubbing his upper back and the other idly brushing at his hair.

It’s been too long.

George, ever-reserved as he is, takes a moment to join them, before he too gingerly wraps his arms around Dream and Sapnap, setting the torch he’s holding into a vacant stand on the wall.

Dream feels whole for a fraction of a second.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

_“Yes!” Dream cries, the word drawn out in laughter, and Sapnap and George, breathing erratically, give him tired, lopsided grins._

_The two stand, dropping their swords into the grass and brushing off their slightly-worn clothing, unprotected by armor._

_Around the trio, the grass is a vibrant green, the sky blue and clear, and the warmth of the sun bakes downward, warming the world in gold as the evening begins to offer reprieve from the hot summer day. The world buzzes with life, with bees and foxes and rabbits, the trees smattering the clearing gently rustling in the wind._

_Despite the fact that George and Sapnap are his opponents, having just barely lost their two-on-one spar, Dream pulls them both into a hug, his height allowing him to reach over their shoulders with ease._

_Everything is warm and life is kind._

The memory fades when Dream feels tears soak through his hoodie, through his turtleneck, to the skin of his chest.

He pulls his friends closer, tight enough to hurt, and opens his eyes to confirm that they’re real. That this is really happening.

When they eventually separate, the hug feeling simultaneously like hours and minutes, Sapnap’s gaze falls on Dream’s hands. Dream doesn’t notice how bad they’ve gotten until now—bruised purple and yellow and green, with split knuckles, and dry blood caking his fingers.

At least they’re numb.

“Dream,” Sapnap breathes, his voice cracking, his eyes pained.

Sapnap is the youngest of the three, and although he’s hardly pure, Dream’s heart breaks for him. Sapnap is a teenager. A reckless one, sure: a nineteen year old arsonist who willingly participates in horrendous acts of violence for fun. But watching his eyes, normally full of energy, chaotic passion, and ambition, go wide with grief—it’s a lot to take in.

“Dream, it’s okay. Just,” Sapnap exhales, shaky, “we’re gonna get you out of here. We’re gonna bust you out. It’ll be us three, like before. You remember? It’s gonna be the three of us?”

Dream doesn’t miss the way that George looks at Sapnap, grief in his eyes, merged with annoyance. Even now, George feels the need to bicker with Sapnap. Dream almost appreciates it, the normalcy of it all.

White lies can’t save him.

“You need to rest your hands,” George says instead, and Dream can agree that it’s much better than the ‘ _shut up, Sapnap_ ’ that would have come had George just an ounce less of patience.

“Whatever,” Dream mumbles.

With the flickering light of the torch, Dream is able to see for the first time in—well—however long he’s been here. His eyes are still adjusting to the change, and he knows that when Sapnap and George leave, the room will go dark again, and he’ll be thrust into the emptiness once more, accompanied with silence, and worst of all, isolation. Despite hating the thought, it's all that’s on his mind, and he selfishly wonders how he can pull the other two into the darkness with him, to at least make it bearable.

George’s and Sapnap’s eyes still don’t stop tracing over him, over and over.

Perhaps they’re memorizing him too, equally afraid of the loss.

“Dream, you’re,” George murmurs, quietly, breaking the momentary silence, “you’re green. You look sick. Have they not fed you?”

Green.

_“Wait— wait, you’re green,” George observes, eyes wide with genuine wonder and he slides his goggles on for the very first time, “you’re green, right?”_

_“Yeah!” Dream is pretty sure he’s never smiled harder, pulling at his lime green hoodie for emphasis as his best friend’s eyes flick between him and a nearby dandelion._

_“Yeah, you— wait, no way!”_

_Clearly encouraged by Dream’s giggling, George continues to pull on and off the goggles rapidly, his eyes darting in a thousand directions at once. “Wait, and that chicken! Like, the beak of the chicken looks way more vibrant!”_

_“It’s red!”_

_As Dream shuffles to show George something else, eagerly opening his inventory for some wool and dye, George tugs him by his arm, and Dream allows the smaller man to sit him down beside the dandelion._

_“Wait, stay here, stay next to the yellow!”_

_Dream laughs, trying to stand, and George lightly kicks him back down, plucking the flower to hold it against Dream’s hoodie._

_“Wait, Dream— you’re actually green!”_

_“I am,” Dream laughs, finally standing up and immediately half-shoving George, “I am!”_

Dream is tempted to nab George’s goggles now, to stomp on them until they shatter, just to kill the memory.

“I,” Dream wills his face not to expose the violent thought, “it’s not like I need to eat, George. It’d be nice, sure, but— y’know I don’t really need it.”

The crease between George’s eyebrows somehow worries even further, and Sapnap huffs out an anxious breath.

“I’m actually gonna kill Bad,” the youngest mutters, gritting his teeth.

Dream almost allows himself to continue entertaining the thought from earlier, before shaking his head with a humorless chuckle. He sinks down into a corner of the room, underneath the torch, feeling the warmth pleasantly spread over his scalp.

"What’s going on outside?” He decides to ask, hoping the topic change is enough of a hint to his friends to leave the topic of his health alone.

Sapnap’s face scrunches up in disdain.

“Ranboo’s running for president,” George explains, “Tubbo quit.”

“...Huh.”

“Yeah. He says he’s tired.”

“That makes sense.”

“They’re having another festival,” Sapnap adds, his eyebrows furrowed.

 _That sounds about right_ , Dream thinks.

The common enemy of the people, subdued, practically slain. It was the SMP’s right to celebrate. And _God_ , what Dream would give to watch the festival burn to mere ash, to hear the resulting agonized screams up-close.

“Any plans?” Dream asks.

“We’re not sure,” Sapnap answers truthfully, “hope so. Maybe we could convince Quackity. He’s always off the shits.”

George raises an eyebrow. “It depends. Might be a bad idea, considering how you were public enemy number one.”

“Fuck this,” Dream groans, clenching a loose fist and swinging it at the wall he leans against.

George and Sapnap wince, and Dream remembers himself.

With a gentle look, Sapnap slowly inches toward Dream’s corner, looking down at the freshly opened wound on Dream’s knuckle.

Dream rolls his eyes.

The god wonders what he wants more: for his friends to bow at his feet, apologetic but unpitying, begging his forgiveness for allowing this to happen; or the team’s usual banter, not rubbing in mortifying loss, pretending as if none of this ever happened. He tries to shake the former from his head, put it aside: the intrusive thought had no place here, not now. Not when this is the first time he’s seen his best friends in God knows how long.

He blinks away his thoughts as Sapnap slides his back down the wall to sit beside Dream, about a foot of space between them.

George still stands towards the middle of the room, away from the other two.

They both look scared to touch Dream, which feels painfully _right_ , considering how violent his thoughts have gotten in the last—

“Guys, how long has it been?”

Sapnap and George exchange a somber look.

“Like, a week?” Sapnap answers.

George’s correction is immediate, “Exactly a week.”

Dream clasps his hands in front of him, illuminated by their proximity to the fire.

“...Wow.”

There’s something so fucking depressing about the toll that only a week could take on him, on his body, on his mind. His raspy voice and bloodied hands, his wobbly stance and frail appearance. It’s all so horribly human. Only a week to lose himself in time. How can he do this for a millenia, for longer?

Yeah, if he were to compare himself to humans, to lower himself and kill his pride, sure. A week is a long time. Seven days, a hundred and sixty-eight hours. All spent alone in the dark. If Dream were human, these conditions would be considered ruthlessly inhumane.

The revelation, although momentary, does horrible things for his arrogance.

The veins in his hands grow prominent as he squeezes them even tighter, his nails digging into his palms. Whatever scrapes left unopened from his outburst minutes ago part, with fresh, dark, red filling the seams.The same part of him that whispers horrible ideations of violence wonders what would happen if skimmed them over the fire.

Maybe he deserves to indulge himself.

Sapnap’s stare follows Dream’s as the older stands, cupping his hands around the torch. He experimentally flicks his middle right finger over a rising ember.

_Just a little closer._

Whether to blame it on his thoughts or his acclimation to the dark, Dream isn’t sure, but he watches bits and pieces of the fire lift, crackle, and suffocate into darkness. Smoke wisps from the flame, hypnotizing, and Dream finds himself in his own momentary universe with the blaze.

Before he can indulge the impulse further, he’s quite literally pulled back to reality.

Sapnap tugs at his ankle, still sitting, and Dream’s arms fall to his sides as his surroundings snap back into focus.

“Dream, c’mon.” Sapnap punctuates the sad request with another light tug on his ankle.

Dream slumps back against the wall, half-lying and half-sitting, with his legs apart and pulled to his chest. His arms lie limp against the floor.

Sapnap links their arms, cautious, and Dream rolls his eyes.

“You guys can still touch me. You know I’m not gonna break, right?”

Sapnap scoffs with a tired smile.

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say.”

Sapnap clings to his arm, harder now, and Dream rolls his eyes.

“Oh my God, just come here. Simp. Simpnap.”

Sapnap’s smile widens, needing no further prompting as he lies down with his face against Dream’s chest, hooking his arms around Dream’s waist like a koala.

“The socks are comin’ off,” Sapnap jokes, and Dream flicks his middle finger against Sapnap’s forehead.

_”I just wanna cuddle with Dream, dude,” Sapnap mumbles, half-asleep after a particularly hard day of resource gathering. Dream throws an arm around him with a smirk, Sapnap leaning against his side._

_“The f— what?!” Tommy asks with a fake gag, slinging a pickaxe over his shoulder._

_The SMP is still young, and even though the seeds of conflict had already been sewn, they were no more than silly inside jokes, an occasional jab or prank or stolen possession._

_“What?” Sapnap turns his head to face the petulant teenager, his eyes snapping open. “Did I stutter, stupid bitch?”_

_“What?!” Dream wheezes with laughter, doubling forward._

_Sapnap pulls an axe from his inventory at the same time as Tommy pulls a sword, and Dream releases his best friend as he storms toward Tommy._

_“What is wrong with you?!” Tommy yells, only prompting Dream to laugh harder._

_“Sapnap’s, like, going crazy.” George mutters, deadpan, and even though it isn't very funny Dream wheezes even louder._

Sapnap’s always been on the tactile side.

“Love how George is just standing there,” Dream acknowledges, giving the oldest a playful look as he struggles to will the pleasant memory away.

_Now is not the time. ‘The time’ was half a year ago._

“C’mon Gogy, don’t be shy,” Sapnap teases with a laugh, the huff of breath too awkward to be natural.

The false casualness makes Dream’s stomach lurch, but nonetheless he gives a chuckle too. Sapnap's never really been the best actor.

George rolls his eyes as he sits beside Dream and Sapnap’s awkward cuddle pile, not quite touching them, his hands folded in his lap and his knees tucked to his chest.

“Happy?” He asks.

The silence he receives is probably answer enough.

It’s within half-an-hour or so of silence that Dream feels Sapnap go heavy on top of him, the younger's head still buried in his chest and arms still fastened tightly around his waist. He snores lightly, and Dream fondly smiles down at the back of his head, idly stringing his fingers between the knots in the man's hair with one hand and hugging him into his chest with the other.

He looks like he needs the rest, and Dream has an inkling of a feeling that this is the closest that Sapnap has gotten to sleeping soundly in a while.

The absence of conversation, as kind as it is, with the only audible sound in the cell the crackling of torchfire, shatters as Dream parts his chapped lips, turning his head to look at George.

“You were right,” Dream speaks low, careful not to wake the youngest, “It wasn’t worth it. It never was.”

“I know.”

“I’m…” Dream swallows hard. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I guess.”

“You guess?” George rolls his eyes, less annoyance and more melancholy fondness. “Is saying sorry really that hard?”

“I—”

“Dream, you paid with your life. Be sorry for yourself.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I mean whatever, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

_Nothing about this is whatever. This is the farthest thing from whatever, and they both know it._

_Nothing has been 'whatever' in a very long time._

Dream nervously licks his lips. “Your crown.”

This seems to get George’s attention.

“What about it?”

“I’m sorry that I took it from you. I thought that’s what you wanted, but, yeah. It was still shitty.”

George raises his eyebrows. Dream scoffs.

“Okay, and I’m sorry I called you a terrorist. And that I… Left you guys behind like that. In general.”

Dream doesn’t know how George can muster a smirk that looks so painfully sad.

“I _guess_ I forgive you. And, I mean, it looks like Sapnap does too.”

Dream would like to think the near-imperceptible squeeze around his waist he receives is a conscious effort from the sleeping man.

Dream returns George’s smile, his eyes falling shut as he sucks in a deep inhale, stale air and smoke.

“This sucks,” he says, and he means it.

George huffs. “Yeah, no shit.”

Dream feels George’s head drop to his shoulder, and he both wants to laugh and cry. They haven’t done this in so fucking long.

It’s only been months since Dream has last let his guard down, and yet it feels like years. This feels like a post-credits scene—like a poor reconciliation of a bad ending, like the wishful thinking of a child after a particularly sad film, like a comfort for the tears already spilled after the end of an exceptionally gripping book.

Like this is the end of the world, the sinking of a poor man’s titanic, and all he can do is wait.

He feels George’s breath slow, in rhythm with Sapnap’s. The warmth, between the three of them, beneath the fire, in his chest, is almost too much.

He lets it smother him, like a weighted blanket, as he succumbs to sleep.

He awakes alone, in the dark, in the silence, George and Sapnap now absent.

When the tears begin to roll down his cheeks, one after another, as he thrashes against the walls, he knows that he has lost.

**Author's Note:**

> according to ao3 statistics only a small percentage of people that read my content actually comment on it and leave kudos so if you enjoyed please do that its free and it makes me feel so appreciated :] 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4krkw1YcEK3HRjVxYC8fAi?si=tEfWKvh4Qm-4AvJkaVGxog - here's my SMP Quackity playlist for no particular reason.


End file.
